


What You Want

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Fluff, Comforting Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 15:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14287584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Written for @thewhiterabbit42’s Disney Writing Challenge quote #1 from Beauty and the Beast: “I want to do something for her… but what?”/ “Well, there’s the usual things – flowers, chocolates, promises you don’t intend to keep…” You’re feeling down and Castiel wants to do something special for you. Fluff.





	What You Want

The blue-eyed seraph sighs. It’s not any old run of the mill lungful of lament. Rather, his ribcage expands and contracts expelling a celestial force gale wind to roil the adjacent air of the bunker’s library. The atmospheric onslaught ends in an aggravated thundering grumble of a particularly naughty Enochian curse that would make the high pontiff himself the Pope blush, but which, meaning incomprehensible to present company, flushes no flesh.

Seated downwind, hair ruffled in the frustrated gust, Sam peers up from his vantage point across the table and closes the cover of the lore book propped in the nook of his lanky stacked legs. He ponders his angelic friend’s blustery expression for a split second and tentatively asks, “You say something, Cas?”

As Castiel happened to have said something far more ignoble than _something_ and he doesn’t currently possess the patience to explain the translation to the inquiring Winchester who on a previous occasion was unable to comprehend the base humor contained in the insult of suggesting someone breeds with the mouth of a goat, he chooses to ignore the query and, in doing so, the questioner. He continues to scowl at the laptop before him, critical squint suggesting he’s engaged in serious internal deliberation over whether to grant mercy or succumb to the urge to smite the utterly unhelpful device. He follows the exasperated exhalation with a consternated snort.

Knotting his forehead in concern over the angel’s brooding blow-off, Sam blinks and diverts his gaze askance toward his brother. He finds Dean either studiously contemplating the inside of his freckled eyelids, or asleep sitting upright…again. Sam clears his throat. When this tactic fails, he lands a sharp kick on the leg of Dean’s chair.

“What? Pie!” Dean flinches bodily and valiantly grapples with the wooden arms before the vestiges of slumber lift and he realizes with a sheepish smile where he sits. Licking his dry lips, the shadow of a small remorseful frown lingers at the unfortunate waking lack of pie.

Sam quirks a directive brow toward Cas.

Dean’s eyes divert to the disenchanted angel. Curling his lip, he turns back to Sam and shrugs total ignorance.

Sam’s mouth sets in a hard line, sternly stating in silence Dean should say something since Sam’s statement went unanswered and, you know, they do have a more profound bond after all.

Dean concedes the point with an amenable nod. The hunter fidgets in his flannel and leans across the table. Wagging a finger, he mutters, “You know, for a guy who doesn’t breathe, you’re moving around a lot of oxygen over there.”

The angel’s blues glint darkly at the insinuation and shift to glare at Dean.

“What gives?” Dean prods when his friend offers no sassy rejoinder.

Deciding Dean’s question is sincere, he states, “I noticed after our last adventure that Y/N seems particularly unhappy.”

“Yeah, it was a rough one,” Dean scoffs. “On all of us. And?”

“ _And_ ,” Castiel’s voice grates, “in case you haven’t noticed, it’s affecting her more than any of us. Or did you miss the fact she hasn’t emerged from her room since we returned yesterday?”

“He’s right, she hardly said anything on the ride back,” Sam helpfully notes. “Not even when you threatened to play Bonnie Tyler on repeat for the entire 8 hours.”

Dean brushes off their combined concern with a swat of his hand. “She’ll get over it, always does. And what’s wrong with Bonnie Tyler, Mr. _Ladyheart_?”

Sam raises his hands in defensive politeness to excuse himself from the argument.

“I’m worried,” Cas’ sigh cuts the tension. He braces his elbows on the table top and glances doubtfully between the brothers.

It’s a final resort, asking them for advice when it comes to you. After all, Dean thinks you’re fine cause – _Why wouldn’t you be fine? Everyone is fine. Let’s all be fine until the lack of fineness reaches apocalyptic proportions!_ – is his life motto. And Sam, well, his unfortunate track record with women is, to put it bluntly, pretty spectacularly _lethal_.

When it comes to your well-being and happiness, Cas cares – deeply. Deeper than you know. And deeper than you’ve dared to let yourself hope. But as with a lot of things, human things like emotions, Cas has a funny way of figuring out how to show his care that manages to leave you both optimistically hopeful and utterly baffled. At present, wearied and raw, you can’t seem to mount the motivation to get out of bed let alone summon the stamina for piecing together seemingly unsolvable but nonetheless promising puzzles.

You’ve already averted the angel’s awkward attempt this morning at physical affection presented in the form of a firm pat on the back and a murmured, “ _There, there_.” You’ve spurned his offers to talk which were accompanied by an intense blue stare meant to belay _sincerity_ but which screamed _scrutiny_. And you even went so far as to reject a peace offering of PB and J, leaving the unsolicited sandwich to simultaneously go soggy and stale on your nightstand.

Given the circumstances of his thwarted efforts, your prolonged despondency, and the overwhelming number of ideas available in his Websummon search for _making someone happy_ and his paralyzing inability to narrow them down, he ventures the calculated risk of seeking Sam and Dean’s input. “I want to do something for her…but what?”

“Well, there’s the usual things – flowers, chocolates, promises you don’t intend to keep…” Dean jumps right in with the tried-and-true standards.

Knowing ahead of time his earnest enquiry would surely be fodder for Dean’s amusement, but not anticipating the punchline to be immediate, Cas rolls his eyes to focus on the belt of beige fabric he didn’t realize he was anxiously fiddling with in his lap.

“Dean,” Sam scolds. A romantic at heart, he doesn’t approve of his brother’s teasing since the angel informed them of the intensifying nature of his fond feelings toward you not too long ago. He knows Dean ships the two of you, hard, no matter how much mocks.

“What? I’m just sayin’-” Dean sneers and slouches recalcitrantly into his chair.

“So, Cas-” The softness of Sam’s tone arouses the angel’s attention. “How about this? Maybe instead of trying so hard to guess, why don’t you just try asking her what she’d like you to do?”

It’s such a simple approach the seraph can’t believe it didn’t occur to him. With the instincts of a soldier, he spent so much time speculating about how you would react to certain advances and strategizing on which front to attack and with what arsenal, it never occurred to him you weren’t a foe actively plotting against his every cautious move.

“Well, yeah. What Sammy said. I mean, obviously that was my next suggestion,” Dean concurs.

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas nods gratefully. Squandering no more time wondering, he vanishes in a ripple of feathers to reappear outside your bedroom door.

The door hangs ajar several inches and through the gap he observes you sat cross-legged on the bed, back cushioned by a pile of pillows propped up between you and the headboard but evidently lending little comfort given your stressed aspect. A book dangles from your fingertips, the literary distraction forgotten as your eyes aim forlorn at a vacant corner of the room.

The angel’s folded knuckles rise to rap the wood to announce his presence.

“Oh, hey Cas.” You blink and plaster on a weak smile. He stands there, silent and staring, until you feel compelled to bid him join your pity party. “Come on in.”

The relief at not having to ask for entrance washes visible over the stoical strained features of his vessel. He pushes the door inward, creaking at the hinges, and steals a single hesitant step inward.

“What do you want?” The words spill brusque from your tongue. You don’t imagine you have anything left in reserve to give at the moment, you ask anyway.

The hem of his trench rubs at his thighs as he takes another step. “I was thinking. No, uh-” His eyes flit to a framed photo on your dresser of you and the boys and he restarts, “I was wondering-” He inhales a bolstering breath and closes his eyes to gather his intent into a cohesive statement. When his lashes lift, they unveil a blue clear as the summer sky. “What I’m trying to say is that it seems like you’re feeling under the weather. If there’s anything you want of me, anything I can do to help, it’s yours.”

The sentiment touches your heart, wets your eyes, and spreads warmly through your chest, dusting your neck and cheeks faintly pink. “Anything?” you echo, a whisper of breath barely audible even to angelic ears.

His head bobs in confirmation.

“Maybe-” It’s your turn to look shyly away and press your tearfully-brimming eyes closed. The only thing you want right now, the only thing you need, is to feel you are not alone and you can think of no one you’d rather be not alone with than the angel. You wipe the brine sheening your lashes with a sleeve and rub the space on the bed beside you. Glancing toward him, the same warm comfort soothing your soul beneath his gentle and undemanding gaze, you begin again, “Maybe you could just sit here with me for a little while.”

The shimmer of a smile on his lips assures you there’s no place else he’d rather be.


End file.
